by Christopher Keimling

Submitted to Self Abuse

"Don't even fucking like it, you know you didn't like it, you guys are full of shit," yells Bob Furtado, lead singer of Self Abuse, in response to a smattering of applause that follows his opening number. It is the first in a series of light-hearted, abusive exchanges between Furtado and the audience, whose opinion he both seeks and dismisses (e.g. "Did you like it?...Fuck off!!")

He launches into another song. It begins with a hearty "1, 2, 3, 4!" only to be still-born seconds later in a discordant jangle of noise. "That's not the way it goes!" he tells his band with disgust.

A mumble emerges from somewhere within a cluster of kids in baggy pants and wallet chains -- "Stupid motherfucker."

"Hey, I'm just a man," he says with a straight face. The crowd laughs. Here and there brightly colored hair can be seen; one head green, one red, another purple.

I looked around the room as the members of Self Abuse tried to figure out what song to play next. If it weren't for the skater merchandise and the store windows facing the Saturn dealership across the street, the concrete floor, pool table and comfortable couches would make you feel as if you were in someone's basement. Rows of skateboards hang on the wall to my left. Shirt racks are to my right, and a pyramid display of sneakers sits in front of me.

By the end of their fourth song, entitled "Dunghole," Self-Abuse was gaining momentum. Applause was on the increase, as was the volume of their vocals.

"I am king! I am king of this trailer hell!" Furtado screams in an ode to white-trash living.

More songs followed; fast-paced spurts of energy lasting about as long as adolescent sex.

Afterwards, I smoked a cigarette and spoke outside with Furtado, 27. "What are most of your songs about?" I asked. His lyrics were intriguing, even if they were for the most part completely unintelligible. "Bad relationships. Being a confused twenty-something with no direction and no motivation...who hates...for no reason," he said. His eyes were serious and sincere, his voice resigned. He put his shirt back on, covering his pale, wiry tattooed torso with a black shirt that said HATE in big letters. One of his band mates stood nearby, wearing a shirt with a sign that read "Thrash Zone." He didn't speak; he seemed the silent type.

I asked Furtado what he thought about Blondie's. He began by voicing his approval of the mixed crowd in attendance. "Punks, metalheads, straight-edgers, you got quite a mix here."

He went on to express his dismay and frustration with what he sees as the balkanization of the Extreme music scene, where fans and performers claim fierce allegiance to one subgenre to the exclusion of all others. "Bands don't want to be booked with other genres," he said, adding that tonight's event was atypical in that grindcore, punk-hardcore, industrial, and death metal bands were all performing under the same roof.

We discussed other topics, including song lyrics. "How does the chorus to that 'Golden World' song go?" I asked.

We're not the generation of the future,
we're the mistakes of yesterday
trying to get by in your Golden World.
Why don't you just fade away.

I enjoyed speaking with Furtado, but he seemed tired, and the next band was starting to play inside. I asked him if he wanted a copy of my article; he told me I could mail an issue to the Austin Plasma Center, where he works. He turned to his mute guitarist.

"You got anything to say to him?" Furtado asked.

His friend paused for a moment. "The guitar was out of tune," he said, grinning.

X-treme Video

Next up was 151, a talented young group of graduates from the Nine-Inch-Nails school of angst-inducing noise. Strange samples of voices (mostly dialogue from late-night B-movies) played in the background of many of their songs, which had a slow industrial feel. For a cover song, they performed "So What?" by Ministry.

Other songs picked up the pace, having more of a punk rock sound with catchy spirited choruses like "Never surrender when you can't turn back!!" and "Give it all you got...you gotta go extreme!!"

I spoke with lead singer Tristan Rudat, and I came to admire the ambition and focus of his group. By day, Rudat and his bandmates do camera work for ESPN. Using footage they filmed during their coverage of the X-games, they will put together a music video featuring their "Extreme" theme song. The video of this song will serve as an intro to the summer X-games program that will air on ESPN 2 this year -- if all goes as planned, and I suspect it will.

"We're making a video so you guys gotta look like you're animated," he told the crowd. The young kids in front, a few wearing Nine Inch Nails T-shirts, were roused from their couches, while friends with cameras hovered about, circling and collecting footage.

Towards the back, an older group of guys with long heavy-metal hair stood around two coolers of beer, sipping patiently and waiting for Satan, who was scheduled to perform next.

A Brush with Death (of Millions)

"Here's something that'll hurt you," announced the sinister-looking frontman for Death of Millions, whose long hair and beard made him look like Jesus Anti-Christ.

The guitarists' fingers became lost in a blur as they strummed at lightning speed. The drummer pounded away, sweating profusely. Jesus Anti-Christ, dressed in a monk's cowl, doubled over, his head near the ground. Obscured by falling hair, his face grew red as he vomited forth an unholy torrent of vocals.

He was possessed by two demons. The first spoke in a low, growling Cannibal Corpse voice; a sound that always makes me think of a bear in a cave. The second voice was a high-pitched, visceral screaming that held me mesmerized. It sounded like a cat that had been dunked in gasoline and set aflame -- that's as close as I can come to describing it, my words failing to describe it in all its hellish glory. Its freshly - cut - fingernails - scraping - the - chalkboard quality sent delicious chills down my spine.

He had no middle range -- just these two voices, voices so disparate I could hardly believe they were produced by the same person. Between songs, the demons relinquished their grip.

"We got T-shirts, CDs up here if you you guys want some," he said, pushing some hair behind his ear. Instantly he sounded harmless, even a little wimpy, but the demons repossessed him once the music started. He doubled over, and the growling/shrieking resumed. Disciples gathered at the foot of the stage and nodded their heads in worship.

With songs like "Ritual Killing," "Burn in Hell," "Kidnap Victim #12," "Hopeless Death" and "Abortion Retrieval," there can be no doubt that Death of Millions represents Death Metal at its finest.